Memoirs
by Daddy
Summary: Yet another AU world. DxH, I'm afraid. Non-explicit, but still not for the kiddies. Very A. N. Roquelaure inspired, but a lot softer than that. Not a good summary, I know, but tell me how to do things better? Please review, it only takes a second to expre


Fore:  
Hello, my name is Daddy (Perchie_mail@yahoo.com), and I will be your entertainment for this brief period of time. Please enjoy the fic I am writing solely for your pleasure, as it wasn't meant to make you sick. ^^ On that note, this contains slash, DxH to be exact, so please take note. However, the slash is an integral part of the story, and will not be explicit. It's more of a soul love, not a lust, thank you very much. So, I'm rating this… what? PG-13? Just to be safe. Hell, I don't even know what kids 13 or under should read or know anymore; Love Line (I LOVE YOU ADAM!!) and Disney (gay-day a-go-gos!) have so screwed me up…   
  
*Ahem* Anyways, this wasn't meant to infringe on J. K. Rowling or anything in any way similar to this story. I must admit, I've been on an A. N. Roquelaure spree this weekend, and I feel the trilogy has a big 'ol frickin hand in this story… The main point to it, really. So, anyways, no suing me! And you angry, abandoning mothers can't get at my ass either, because I put the slash warning. So, all minors, or those of you who wish NOT to think about Boy x Boy action 24/7, shoo! Find some nice Hello Kitty or Garfield or something.  
  
Okay, now after all that crap, finally to the story! -_-;; It's from Draco's point of view, and I quite like it, myself. Sounds English-y to me! *Ahem* So, only some spoilers for the first book, if they're even spoilers. And, there's also a lot of crap I made up. ^^ If there are those of you who like mean, angry Draco beating on Harry, this isn't for you. He does beat on him, but not… Err, okay, just read the story already! I'm giving away too much… yet not enough… *pause* … MAWAHAHAHA!! …^^;; Please, go on…  
  
  
  
Memoirs  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Harry… was given to my family by Lord Voldemort as a reward. His full name is Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort had said… and my father found it wonderfully derisive to call him Potter, being our slave and all. He quickly became mine though, his youth more suited to me than anyone else. I always called him Harry. That was his name. And, as children do, we quickly grew to be best companions, even for our different status. I came to love him, as my possession, and I believe he loved me, as his master.  
  
I must confess, he was my first… everything. My first true friend, my first confidant, my first… lover. My first slave. I had seen my father rule his slaves, seen him order them and punish them. But I was young, and I sorely hurt Harry the first fumbling times I punished him. I didn't really know what I was doing. I was angry, and trying out my new wings, so to speak. I made him cry. I made him cry so terribly. I was at a loss then, watching him curled up in on himself, wailing and shaking, frightened out of his mind. Did he feel betrayed, perhaps by his best friend? Or did he feel confused, worthless, that he did not know what he did to upset his master, and how he would prevent himself from doing it again? I don't think he saw me so fully as master then, at that young, innocent, unlearned age. Most likely, I think he did feel betrayed.  
  
He joked with me, laughing with me, as he most surely saw it, teasing me about something I can't remember now. But how I hated it, and I grabbed the thing nearest me, one of the sticks we had previously used to whip plants about as we walked through the forests and fields around the manor. I grabbed him and he looked at me, wondering, and I pushed him down on his knees and began to beat his whole body with the switch. It wasn't so very much, for I soon stopped after he cried out, and I watched him, frozen as I was, he in his misery. I dropped the branch, or more likely I threw it down, disgusted with it for doing this to my friend, my Harry, and I dragged him into my arms, and held him.  
  
It never occurred to him to run away, to fight back in any way. Instead he kneeled there, taking it, then folding when I had stopped in stricken horror. His is such a gentle spirit. And I love him for that, alone. But so many other things too. I don't want to be him, to have his complacency, his respect and adoration for those above him, but I adore those qualities in him. They aren't all he has, though. He would stand up for me, fight for me, or even give his life for me in a fight to the death, if it were required. He doesn't have that much loyalty for others, but if he did I'd simply appreciate his love less, and he would do nothing to diminish my delight in him. My joy is his, and even in his gentle ways, he would rage and wail and become a terror if I turned from him. And I know this, because it happened.  
  
Yet another of the few, thankfully, mistakes I made when young, was to throw a fit when my father made Harry stay to serve him, while I was sent away to play until bedtime. In my foolishness, I believed Harry to have willingly chosen my father over me, so I hated him, and told him so. My father looked amused at that, while the light in Harry's eyes cracked. At my simple statement of animosity, tears flooded his cheeks and he wailed, and he struggled from my father's grasp, biting him in the process. I was floored. Harry condemned my father even as I watched, and wounded my father. Harry cried out to me, to love him again, to accept him again, as he loved only me. Even as he professed this, my father's thunderous visage towered over him like some great, angry god, and I feared for Harry. All my anger was gone, and only terror remained. I only made that mistake of refusing Harry's enduring adoration once. Once was all it took to teach me that it was much simpler to accept Harry's willingness to obey any elders, to accept his willingness to please, than to bandage up his wounds and soothe his soul for days after that terrifying night. I suppose Harry learned most of his fear/submission of those above him from that night. And I cried with him, my guiltiness and sorrow hurting me just as much as his welts and bruises hurt him. I learned as much then, as he did. If not, more. He learned to not fight, not refuse, and I learned to not judge, to not presume, and to think of the consequences on my actions on others, before I caused them. I learned to adore Harry as much as he did me.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
Harry, being the slave he is, has never been off the manor grounds before. Before Hogwarts, that is. When that owl came for me, it, in truth, came for him too. No, it did not mention him at all, but it was a given I would go when I became of age, and he, belonging to me, would come with, just like my other belongings, my owl, or my several chests. I did not think there would be any problems with him coming, for surely it concerned me and not him, but I think perhaps my father did. And he surely took a hidden, malicious glee in it. Not for Harry's trials and sufferings, but for mine. There has always been the hate for family members in the heart of every Malfoy. Since we came to be. Even when we weren't called Malfoys, the resentment and the territorialism was there. We cannot help but compete with one another on some kind of petty level, but I think my father's line of hate will end with me. I do not wish for a future family, as all others seem to do.  
  
No, my future will be a totally tranquil one, with me in a house somewhere, not very big, but still with all the modern comforts. And he, Harry, will be by my side, to serve and please me as I wish. As he wishes to do. Sunshine in my future, with a star beside me. Truly, no one could want for more than pure happiness and peace. That is what he will bring to me, in my future. But, I am truly getting off track now, aren't I? Back to the point. Harry had never been off of Malfoy Manor. And what a world of shock he was in when he was thrust into the mayhem of Hogwarts. Perhaps it seemed ordered to you and I, but only because we are accustomed to it. He most certainly was not. He was utterly shocked to find a whole other universe away from the mansion and it's few skittering servants. No one really talked to him, except for me in all the glory and splendor of innocence and imagination. The fantastic things I used to tell him! And the incredible things he believed. But he was not lonely, as many would prefer to believe. I had his god, his galaxy; he exists only for me. And just think, I had never told him this, he told it to me! I'm not sure where he got it from, but I'm glad he believes it. Because it's true.  
  
I remember he almost had a breakdown when we first arrived at the bustling and deafening train station. The scenery had enraptured him as we stepped out from an Inn into Diagon Alley, and he had been amazed that when we went into the fire, we actually came out alive. It's almost funny, now that I think of it, his reaction when he first saw me leave the house through the hearth. He tried to follow after me, and only succeeded in making his fingernails black for weeks afterwards. He has a bad sense of touch in his fingertips, even now. He was heartbroken the first time I left him like that, and only gentle, adolescent touches reassured him after every time I returned. I heard from many he was reclusive, and a nervous wreck, when I left him. But he did not hate me in any way for this abandonment. He only loved me more when I came back to him. I do not understand it. Except, perhaps that, now that I think of it, his fears were not that I had left him, but that I had been badly hurt by the fire. He looked at me with awe, that I would be so brave, and that I could come out unharmed. So many little things astound him.  
  
Well, when he was lead out onto the busy street, he stared, gape-jawed, at the people and the activity. He didn't understand what many of the things were there for, and I can only imagine what he thought of some of the odder things. He didn't panic though, like a good boy, and only grasped my hand tighter and stuck closer to me. At some points, I noticed, I could feel the heat of his body even through the thick material of our robes, and the clothes under them. He was patient enough waiting to board the train, but I could feel his tension, terror, and bewilderment at his situation. We boarded the train, along with Crabbe and Goyle, who had taken up residence on either side of me, and I went to put Harry down in my car. He was over-whelmed, I felt, and I put him to rest. He may have missed me, but I did not want him to have a breakdown in the middle of the train. I then went to make the rounds.   
  
Many people were my instant friends, and others not. Pity those others. After some time of introducing myself to all there, I went back to my car, and found to my astonishment, that several boys had surrounded my Harry and were touching him. They had said they were only trying to help him, as my bodyguards chased them out of the compartment, and I think I do believe them. Only, it was not the comfort he needed or wanted. He uncurled into my arms immediately, though it took some time to stop his sobbing hiccups and to make him sleep. Those boys, as I later learned, are of the Weasley clan, and I despise them. Not only is their father an enemy of my father, but the sons too are my enemies. I will bring them down some day, in my duty to Lord Voldemort, and they will rue the day they ever touched my Harry. Good intensions or not, you do not touch another man's property, or their lover (the same thing, really), unless he gives explicit permission, or asks you to. They did not ask, and I did not let them.  
  
After he woke, he seemed a bit calmer, and tried desperately to not let so many strangers upset him so badly. But he did shake on the whole trip to the main hall in the school. Even after that. I saw many staring at him, at his scar, I was sure, as we were rounded up into groups, and put before the other students. I need not tell you of my irritation when people stare at it. It is not a brand, or something there for other's amusement. It is a mark to remind Harry for all of time that he is to obey those above him, and that he belongs solely to the Malfoy family, a gift of Lord Voldemort's. He. Is. Mine. And I will not let others degrade him for the mark, even in their minds. In turn, it would be degrading me, for he is mine to mold and do with as I please. And, in that respect, to insult me is to insult him.   
  
When we were put into the line to wait for our turn under the sorting hat, the elders must have mistook him for a student, as, he came with me, so he was put into line right behind me. A few asked his name, and he told them in a hushed whisper it was Harry. I daresay many believed him to be my brother, and I can only snort at that.   
  
When it was my turn to go up, Harry went to immediately follow, but the boy behind him pulled him up short by the back of his robe, and told him it was only one person up at a time. He was stunned at the authority of the other person, for the moment, and did not move to follow. He quite perplexed the boy, though, when I came back down and went to the Slytherine table, and Harry followed after me. He made another grab at Harry, but Harry was too quick. The boy was further confused when his own name was called, not Harry's, but he went up anyway. I believe he went to Griffyndor.  
  
In customary fashion, as we had done at home, Harry followed me like a shadow, ready to do anything I wished. We went quickly over to the great table, and I sat by Goyle; there was an empty seat beside me. But, as he was use to doing, Harry kneeled by my left side as best he could with the benches giving no room for him to be my left arm. Instead, he had to settle for being behind me, but he was content enough, to kneel on the floor and be my servant. Many turned and stared at him, some even bending over the table to have a look. Confusion, and derision, showed on their faces. I didn't mind though, I am Draco Malfoy, and I own Harry Potter. If I feel pride, then he will too, and will not be offended by anyone's rude stare or derogatory statements.  
  
A Slytherine prefect passed by, as we waited, and asked Harry what the matter was. I ignored it, Harry could take care of this well enough. Harry didn't understand the boy's question though, and told him nothing was wrong, at least to his knowledge. His exact words were, "My master wants for nothing." Loud laughter broke out at that, and it only terrorized Harry. The prefect, blushing in anger, asked him curtly to sit in the seat beside me, and it was Harry's turn to look scandalized. Only until he was able to eat with a spoon by himself was he put beside me at mealtimes. After that, he kneeled and served me. It was all he knew, and it was right to him. Though horrified, he obeyed the older boy, and climbed in beside me. He was clearly uncomfortable though, lost now that he was on the same level as everyone else, and thrust into the crowd that they made instead of being shielded behind me. His shoulders hunched and he looked about to cry. I think the hand I settled on his thigh helped, though he still looked so despondent.  
  
By that time, the sorting hat was finished, and the food appeared. Everyone dug in with great gusto and noise, everyone except Harry. He stared down at his plate, head bowed, not knowing what to do. I served myself, and I saw in quick flashes of his eyes that he looked vaguely hurt. I shrugged mentally. It did not matter to me, I was technically on trial here, too. A girl, staring at him, made a comment and sneered about his not eating. This incensed me, and I told her in very simple terms, to never speak to him again. She blushed furiously, embarrassed, and did not eat for the rest of the meal. She still has not spoken a word to him. Although they must have found it odd, no one else commented on how Harry ate after I had finished, and at how surprised he was that the dishes and silverware disappeared before his eyes. It made me chuckle, how child-like he was in his astonishment that he did not have to carry away the dinnerware and wash it personally.   
  
After the initial dividing of the students into their new halls, it was time for some true sleep. Of all the exhausted people, Harry must have been the most drained, and the most stressed. He had been introduced to a wholly terrible change to his previous lifestyle. When we all put our things away in our trunks, and had settled into our beds to rest as fitfully as we might, Harry crawled in after me, and nestled himself into my arms. I noticed the other students paid attention to this, but I minded not, who are they to bother me about anything? I am above them all, and so is Harry. But he might not believe that…  
  
The prefects came in, to make sure we were all comfortable and okay, and one tried to get Harry to sleep in a bed on the other side of the quarters than mine, it was the only one left empty. Harry, of course, didn't deign to leave me, and he didn't understand that he should sleep in his own bed. I didn't exactly either. Hadn't we been sharing the same slumber space for all of our lives? It was the only time when we were equals in our physical love, although I was dominant then too. He took solace in me, as his caring Master, and I took solace in him, as one who would never betray me, and one I could let my guard down around. He is mine utterly, so why not?  
  
Eventually, the prefect gave up, and the students around me smirked at him behind their drawn curtains. I must say I did as well, and Harry was already deep asleep in my arms. I kissed him gently on the forehead, and went myself to sleep. That was the first full day of Harry's new freedom from the mansion, though, sadly, it was not his hardest.  
  
  
  
Post:  
Daddy: …okay, I'm stuck. Have Harry try to be a student, or have him be a servant, still? And what do the teachers think? Hmm hmm hmm… And then what about Sirius? And, one big question has been plaguing me. Why did Voldemort give Harry to the Malfoys, even after trying to kill him? And, if Voldemort didn't try to kill him, how'd he get the scar? Perhaps his scar isn't on his forehead, and isn't the lightning mark. Draco was never specific about it, right? So, maybe I can be devious and work in something different… *rubs hands and chuckles* Okay, he did say that it was a mark of slavery, so what the hell would it look like? Where would it be? Would it be an evil mark, since You-Know-Who gave it to Harry? And if he has an evil mark on him, why would he just be let into the school? Wouldn't the teachers investigate? *sigh sigh sigh* So many things… Please help me? I'd love feedback! Of the constructive kind, of course. ^^  
Oh! And I am I being in any way loyal to the books? I've read so much fanfiction, and the books so long ago, that it's hard to tell what's 'real' and what's not anymore… Does the narrator even sound like Draco? Too many questions, and all from me! Help!! ^^;; And just think, there are more questions I haven't even though of, to answer…  



End file.
